Page 30 of The Desert King's Kidnapped Virgin
And on some level she was aware that she clearly felt safe enough with this man that she thought she could be so reckless. That she could say such things without worrying about reprisals.
Cyrus bared his teeth into something she would never call a smile. It was too fierce. Too elemental. Then he rolled away from her and up onto his feet in a single swift move.
Once again displaying that particular grace that made him more dangerous and more sensual than any man should be all at once.
And as he stalked toward the door, she laughed dark and low, the way he had before. Hope pushed herself up onto her elbow, and watched him as he paused in the archway that led deeper into his chambers.
She decided to take it as evidence that he was as wrecked as she was that he had to reach out a hand to steady himself. Hope decided to view that as nothing short of a victory.
“Did you lie about giving me my one phone call from prison?” she asked, sounding far more bitter than she felt.
Because it was that or melt all over him, and even though she wanted to do nothing but, there was Mignon to think about.
Cyrus looked back at her, his eyes so dark they might as well have been black. Hope held her breath.
He said no other word, he simply walked from the room.
But before she could think to get back up onto her feet, to try to chase him down or argue the point, his man came and found her. He waited as she scrambled to her feet and then he led her into yet another room in these endless chambers. There was an armchair inside and a table with a phone on it.
The man dialed out, then handed her the receiver.
Hope took it numbly, staring at the old rotary phone as if she had never seen one before.
“One call is all you are permitted, by the grace of our lord and king,” the man told her matter-of-factly. “I will be waiting just outside.”
And Hope didn’t know how she was supposed to process that Cyrus was the first man she’d met since her father had died who had actually kept his promises to her. Or the fact that there was still that same overwhelming storm stampeding about inside of her.
But the phone was ringing.
And there was a part of her, little though she might wish to admit it, that almost wanted to cry with the rush of joy and love and daughterly obligation when she heard her mother answer.
“It’s me,Maman,” she made herself say instead. “Don’t worry,Maman. It’s me.”
And she closed her eyes, wrapped her free arm around her middle, and braced herself as her mother began to wail.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SOMEWEEKSLATER, Cyrus returned to the fortress from a necessary overnight trip down south to tend to the business of running his kingdom. He accepted the cold drink his staff pressed upon him upon his arrival, took his time showering as if he had felt no pressing need to rush back here, and then stood in the windows that overlooked the courtyard of his harem.
His harem with its single occupant.
He told himself that the project was an unqualified success.
Surely the fruit of this particular labor was ripe and sweet, no matter the uncomfortable questions she dared ask him on occasion. He had only to gaze down into the courtyard to assure himself of that.
The women danced below, all of them draped in flowing silks, but he knew precisely which one was Hope. He could see hints of that gleaming gold that drove him to distraction. Her hair. Her eyes.
All the other women danced well, as it was customary in Aminabad to learn these dances at their mothers’ knees. It was a matter of hips and sweet elegance, finding the melody within them as they moved.
His wife—a word he still found sharp and strange, even in his own thoughts—was still learning. That was obvious even from a distance. And there was no denying that she did not possess the natural talents some of the others did.
Yet she was the one who mesmerized him.
Cyrus found himself transfixed. He could not look away.
But as soon as he realized how intently he stood there, how little it seemed possible he might ever drag his attention away, he forced himself to do exactly that. He tossed back the rest of his drink, the sweet cold juice he liked best, and hated that he found himself making pointless comparisons between the sugary hit of a mango and the taste of Hope’s lovely mouth.
Of her kisses, greedy and demanding, that stole his sleep from him on too many nights to count.
